"You must make a stone of your heart, Alfred," Churchill said in a hoarse whisper. "We don't have time for feelings like shame or compassion--none of us, not now. You must set aside whatever morals you still have, set aside whatever feelings of human kindness you still possess, and do whatever it takes to win. Is that clear?"
"It is, Prime Minister."
Churchill leaned closer and spoke in a confessional tone. "There is an unfortunate truth about war. While it is virtually impossible for one man to win a war, it is entirely possible for one man to lose one." Churchill paused. "For the sake of our friendship, Alfred, don't be that man."
Vicary, shaken by Churchill's admonition, gathered up his things and showed himself to the door. Opening it, he walked out into the corridor. On the wall the weather board, updated hourly, read rainy. Behind him he heard Winston Churchill, alone in his underground chamber, muttering to himself. It took Vicary a moment to understand what the prime minister was saying. "Blasted English weather," Churchill murmured. "Blasted English weather."
Vicary, by instinct, looked for clues in the past. He read and reread decodes of messages sent by agents inside Britain to the radio operators in Hamburg. Decodes of messages sent by Hamburg to the agents inside Britain. Case histories, even cases he had been involved with. He read the final report of one of the first cases he had handled, an incident that had ended in the north of Scotland at a place aptly named Cape Wrath. He read the letter of commendation that went into his file, grudgingly written by Sir Basil Boothby, division head, copy forwarded to Winston Churchill, prime minister. He felt the pride all over again.
Harry Dalton shuttled back and forth between Vicary's desk and Registry like some medieval outrider, bringing new documents in one direction, returning old ones in the other. Other officers, aware of the tension building in Vicary's office, drifted past his doorway in twos and threes like motorists passing a road accident--eyes averted, stealing quick frightened glances. When Vicary would finish with one batch of files, Harry would ask, "Anything?" Vicary would pull a fussy frown and say,
"No, nothing, dammit."
By two o'clock that afternoon the walls were collapsing in on him. He had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too many cups of murky gray tea.
"I need some fresh air, Harry."
"Get out of here for a couple of hours. Be good for you."
"I'm going to take a walk--have some lunch, perhaps."
"Want some company?"
"No, thanks."
A freezing drizzle, like the smoke of a nearby battle, drifted over Westminster as Vicary marched along the Embankment. A bitterly cold wind rose from the river, clattered the shabby temporary street signs, whistled through a pile of splintered timber and broken brick where once a splendid building stood. Vicary moved quickly with his stiff-jointed mechanical limp, head down, hands plunged into coat pockets. By the look on his face a passing stranger might have guessed he was late for an important meeting or fleeing an unpleasant one.
The Abwehr had just so many ways of inserting an agent into Britain. Many put ashore in small boats launched from submarines. Vicary had just read arrest reports of double agents code-named Mutt and Jeff; they waded ashore from an Arado seaplane near the herring fishing village of Macduff east of Spey Bay. Vicary already had asked the coastguards and Royal Navy to be especially vigilant. But the British coastline stretches many thousands of miles, impossible to cover entirely, and the chances of catching an agent on a darkened beach were slim.
The Abwehr had parachuted spies into Britain. It was impossible to account for every square inch of airspace, but Vicary had asked the RAF to be watchful of stray aircraft.
The Abwehr had dropped and landed agents in Eire and Ulster. To get to England they had to take the ferry. Vicary had asked the ferry operators in Liverpool to keep an eye out for strange passengers: anyone unfamiliar with the routine of ferry passage, uncomfortable with the language or currency. He couldn't give them a description because he didn't have one.
The brisk walk and cold weather made him hungry. He entered a pub near Victoria Station and ordered a vegetable pie and a half pint of beer.
You must make a stone of your heart, Churchill had said.
Unfortunately, he had done that a long time ago. Helen. . . . She was the spoiled, attractive daughter of a wealthy industrialist, and Vicary, against his better judgment, had fallen hopelessly in love with her. Their relationship began to crumble the afternoon they made love for the first time. Somehow, Helen's father had read the signs correctly: the way they held hands on the way back from the lake, the way Helen touched Vicary's already thinning hair. That evening he summoned Helen for a private chat. Under no circumstances would she be allowed to marry the son of a midlevel bank clerk who attended university on a scholarship. Helen was instructed to terminate the relationship as quickly and quietly as possible, and she did exactly as she was told. She was that kind of girl. Vicary never held it against her, and he loved her still. But something went out of him that day. He supposed it was his ability to trust. He wondered if he would ever get it back.
It is virtually impossible for one man to win a war. . . .
Vicary thought, Damn the Old Man for laying that on my shoulders.
The publican, a well-fed woman, appeared at the table. "That bad, dearie?"
Vicary looked down at his plate. The carrots and potatoes had been pushed to the side and he had been absently trailing the point of his knife through the gravy. He looked at the plate carefully and noticed he had traced an outline of Britain in the brown mess.
He thought, Where will that damned spy land?
"It was fine," Vicary said politely, handing the plate over. "I suppose I wasn't quite as hungry as I thought."
Outside Vicary turned up the collar of his overcoat and started back toward the office.
It is entirely possible for one man to lose one.
Dead leaves rattled across Vicary's path as he hurried along Birdcage Walk. The afternoon's last light retreated with little resistance. In the gathering darkness, Vicary could see the blackout curtains closing like eyelids in the windows overlooking St. James's Park. He imagined Helen standing in one of the windows, watching him hurry along the walkway below. He entertained a wild fantasy that by solving the case, arresting the spies, and winning the war he would prove himself worthy of her and she would have him back.
Don't be that man.
There was something else Churchill had said; he had been complaining about the ceaseless rain. The prime minister, safe in the shelter of his subterranean fortress, complaining about the weather. . . .
Vicary rushed past the guard at MI5 headquarters without showing his identification badge.
"Any inspiration?" Harry asked, when Vicary returned to his office.
"Perhaps. If you needed to get a spy into the country on short notice, Harry, which route would you use?"
"I suppose I'd come through the east: Kent, East Anglia, even eastern Scotland."
"My thoughts exactly."
"So?"
"If you were mustering an operation quickly, which mode of transportation would you choose?"
"That depends."
"Come on, Harry!"
"I suppose I'd choose an airplane."
"Why not a submarine--put the spy ashore in a raft?"
"Because it's easier to get a small plane on short notice than a precious submarine."
"Exactly, Harry. And what do you need to drop a spy into England by plane?"
"Decent weather, for one thing."
"Right again, Harry."
Vicary snatched up the telephone receiver and waited for the operator to come on the line. "This is Vicary. Connect me with the RAF meteorological service immediately."
A young woman picked up a moment later. "Hello."
"This is Vicary from the War Office. I need some information about the weather."
"Quite a nasty spell we're having, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes," Vicary sai
d impatiently. "When is it going to break in the east?"
"We expect the current system to move offshore sometime tomorrow afternoon."
"And we'll have clear skies?"
"Crystal."
"Damn!"
"But not for long. There's another front behind it, moving rapidly across the country in a southeasterly direction."
"How far behind it?"
"That's difficult to say. Probably twelve to eighteen hours."
"And after that?"
"The entire country will be in the soup for the next week--intermittent snow and rain."
"Thank you."
Vicary put down the phone and turned to Harry. "If our theory holds, our agent will try to enter the country by parachute tomorrow night."
13
HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK
The bicycle ride down to the beach usually took about five minutes. Sean Dogherty, late that afternoon, timed it just to make certain. He pedaled at a careful, unhurried pace, head inclined into the freshening wind beating off the sea. He wished the bicycle were in better shape. Like wartime England itself, it was battered, kicked around, desperately in need of maintenance. It clattered and grated with every turn of the pedals. The chain needed oil, which was scarce, and the tires were so bald and patched Dogherty might as well have been riding on the rims.
The rain had tapered off at midday. Plump, broken clouds floated over Dogherty's head like barrage balloons adrift at their moorings. Behind him the sun lay on the horizon like a fireball. The marshes and hillsides burned with a fine orange light.
Dogherty felt an intense excitement rising in his chest. He had not felt anything like this since the first time he met his Abwehr contact in London early in the war.
The road ended in a grove of pines at the base of the dunes. A weathered sign warned of mines on the beach; Dogherty, like everyone else in Hampton Sands, knew there were none. In the bicycle's basket, Dogherty had placed a sealed quart jar of precious petrol. He removed the jar, pushed the bicycle into the grove, and leaned it carefully against a tree.
Dogherty checked his watch--five minutes exactly.
A footpath led through the trees. Dogherty followed it, sand and dry pine needles beneath his feet, and started through the dunes. The crash of breaking waves filled the air.
The sea opened before him. The tide had reached its high mark two hours ago. Now it was running out fast and hard. By midnight, when the drop was scheduled, there would be a wide strip of flat hard sand along the water's edge, perfect for landing an agent by parachute.
Dogherty had the beach to himself. He returned to the pine trees and spent the next five minutes gathering enough wood for three small signal fires. It took four trips to carry the wood to the beach. He checked the wind--from the northeast, about twenty miles per hour. Dogherty stacked the wood in piles twenty yards apart in a straight line indicating the direction of the wind.
The twilight was dying. Dogherty opened the jar of petrol and doused the wood. He was to wait by his radio tonight until he received a signal from Hamburg that the plane was approaching. Then he would ride down to the beach, light the signal fires, take in the agent. Simple, if everything went according to plan.
Dogherty started back across the beach. It was then he saw Mary standing atop the dunes, silhouetted by the last light of sunset, arms folded beneath her breasts. The wind tossed hair across her face. He had told her the previous night; told her that the Abwehr had asked him to take in an agent. He had asked her to leave Hampton Sands until it was over; they had friends and family in London she could stay with. Mary had refused to leave. She had not said a word to him since. They bumped around the cramped cottage in angry silence, eyes averted, Mary slamming pots onto the stove and breaking plates and cups because of her jangled nerves. It was as if she were staying to punish him with her presence.
By the time Dogherty reached the top of the dunes Mary was gone. He followed the path to the spot where he had left the bicycle. Mary had taken it. Dogherty thought, Another round in our silent war. He turned up his collar against the wind and walked back to the cottage.
Jenny Colville had discovered the spot when she was ten years old--a small depression in the pine trees, several hundred yards from the roadway, sheltered from the wind by a pair of large rocks. A perfect hiding place. She had constructed a crude camp stove by stacking stones in a circle and placing a small metal grill on top. Now she laid the makings of a fire--pine needles, dried dune grass, small lengths of fallen tree limbs--and touched a match to it. She blew on it gently, and a moment later the fire crackled into life.
She kept a small case hidden beneath the rocks, covered with a layer of pine needles. She brushed away the needles and pulled it out. Opening the lid, Jenny removed the contents: a worn woolen blanket, a small metal pot, a chipped enamel mug, and a tin of dry, dusty tea. Jenny unfolded the blanket and spread it next to the fire. She sat down and warmed her hands against the flames.
Two years ago a villager had found her things and concluded a tinker was living on the beach. It caused the most excitement in Hampton Sands since the fire at St. John's in 1912. For a time Jenny stayed away. But the scandal quickly calmed and she was able to return.
The flames died, leaving a bed of glowing red embers. Jenny filled the pot with water from a canteen she had carried from home. She set the pot on the grill and waited for it to boil, listening to the sound of the sea and the wind hissing through the pines.
As always, the place worked its magic.
She began to forget about her problems--her father.
Earlier that afternoon, when she arrived home from school, he had been sitting at the kitchen table, drunk. Soon he would become belligerent, then angry, then violent. He would take it out on the person nearest him; inevitably that would be Jenny. She decided to head off the beating before it could take place. She made him a plate of meager sandwiches and a pot of tea and set them on the table. He had said nothing--expressed no concern about where she was going--as Jenny put on her coat and slipped out the door.
The water boiled. Jenny added the tea, covered it, removed it from the fire. She thought of the other girls from the village. They would be home now, sitting down with their parents for supper, talking over the events of the day, not hiding in the trees near the beach with nothing but the sound of breaking waves and a cup of tea for company. It had made her different, older, more clever. She had been stripped of her childhood, her time of innocence, forced to confront the fact very early in life that the world could be an evil place.
God, why does he hate me so much? What have I ever done to hurt him?
Mary had done her best to explain Martin Colville's behavior. He loves you, Mary had said countless times, but he's just hurt and angry and unhappy, and he takes it out on the person he cares about most.
Jenny had tried to put herself in her father's place. She vaguely remembered the day her mother packed her things and left. She remembered her father begging and pleading with her to stay. She remembered the look on his face when she refused, remembered the sound of shattering glass, breaking dishes, the horrid things they said to each other. For many years she was not told where her mother had gone; it was simply not discussed. When Jenny asked her father, he would stalk off in a stormy silence. Mary was the one who finally told her. Her mother had fallen in love with a man from Birmingham, had an affair with him, and was living with him there now. When Jenny asked why her mother had never tried to contact her, Mary could supply no answer. To make matters worse, Mary said Jenny had become her mirror image. Jenny had no proof of this--the last memory she had of her mother was of a desperate and angry woman, eyes swollen and red from crying--and her father had destroyed all photographs of her long ago.
Jenny poured tea, holding the enamel mug close for warmth. The wind gusted, stirring the canopy of pine trees over her head. The moon appeared, followed by the first stars. Jenny could tell it would be a very cold night. She wouldn't be able to stay too long. She
laid two larger pieces of wood on the fire and watched the shadows dancing on the rocks. She finished her tea and curled up in a ball, pillowing her head on her hands.
She pictured herself somewhere else, anywhere but Hampton Sands. She wanted to do something great and never come back. She was sixteen years old. Some of the older girls from the surrounding villages had gone to London and other big cities to take over the jobs left behind by the men. She could find work in a factory, wait tables in a cafe, anything. . . .
She was beginning to drift off to sleep when she thought she heard a sound from somewhere near the water. For a moment she wondered if there really were tinkers living on the beach. Startled, Jenny got to her feet. The pine trees ended at the dunes. She walked carefully through the grove, for it had grown dark rapidly, and started up the slope of sand. She paused at the top, dune grass dancing in the wind at her feet, staring in the direction of the sound. She saw a figure dressed in an oilskin, sea boots, and a sou'wester.
Sean Dogherty.
He seemed to be stacking wood, pacing, calculating some distance. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe Sean was going crazy.
Then Jenny spotted another figure at the top of the dunes. It was Mary, just standing there in the wind, arms folded, gazing at Sean silently. Then Mary turned and quietly left without waiting for Sean.
When Sean was out of sight Jenny doused the embers, put away her things, and pedaled her bicycle home. The cottage was empty, cold, and dark when she arrived. Her father was gone, the fire long dead. There was no note explaining his whereabouts. She lay awake in bed for some time, listening to the wind, replaying the scene she had witnessed on the beach. There was something very wrong about it, she concluded. Something very wrong indeed.
"Surely there's something else we could do, Harry," Vicary said, pacing his office.
"We've done everything we can do, Alfred."